


About Bar Fights and Moobs

by cajunquandary



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bar Fight, Other, good ole fun, shirtless winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cajunquandary/pseuds/cajunquandary
Summary: The reader is at a dive bar drinking and complaining about men and relationships along with another woman who she just met when a random fight erupts the entire bar into a war zone. Cue Winchesters.
Relationships: None





	About Bar Fights and Moobs

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for @iwantthedean’s Two Prompt Challenge. My prompt was “Listen here, Chisel Chest, okay, we were here first.” While I tend to write mostly about Dean or Benny, Sam kinda spoke to me on this one. It’s Sammy central but fear not—there’s plenty of sassy Dean to go around! ((And if anyone doesn’t know? Moobs=Man Boobs and no I’m not even sorry.))

“I just don’t understand, Alicia. It was Alicia, right?”

“Actually it’s Alex—“

“Anyway, he’s so frustrating! I’m glad it’s over but honestly I’m still raging. How dare he thinks he can talk to people like that? And don’t even get me started about the lying and money.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Mine did the same thing, but it was always MY fault. Everything was.”

You downed your shot while only half listening to Alicia. No, Alexa or something. Whatever. Neither of you would remember come morning. You both just got dumped and had come out to let off a little steam, and it was working so far. Kind of. Why did they call it an angel shot anyway? The mixed liquor was mostly a beige color with the thinnest line of blue on top. Honestly, it reminded you of a trench coat and there’s not much angelic about that.

Before you could ponder about the strange drink menu, a chair flew behind you, a couple of ragged bikers starting to fight. In no time at all, every patron in the building was involved. Chairs, tables, plates and fists flew—had you just stepped into a bad cartoon? A beer bottle grazing your scalp drew you back to the chaotic reality. “Shit!”

You hopped onto the bar top quickly, sliding down to the other side to take cover. Alicia—no, Alex something—flopped with an umph next to you, her drink still in hand. She held it up and panted lightly, “Priorities.” She gulped the remainder in record time.

“OW!” Had a moose just landed on you? For God’s sake!! For a moment you wondered if there was anywhere safe. You tried to protest but the hefty man’s rear was pressing on your lungs, his head somewhere by your sprawled out feet. Poor thing landed upside down, he twisted trying to right himself, but only caused more pressure on you. Stars gathered at the edge of your vision before he succeeded. Once free, he got up on his knees, chest poking out as he stole a glance over the countertop.

“Listen here, Chisel Chest,” You croaked, voice finally coming back. “Okay, we were here first. And where the hell is your shirt?! You’re going to poke someone’s eye out!”

The beast of a man stooped back down to look you in the eye, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but all you could focus on were the hazel of his gentle, concerned eyes, his dimples as his mouth pressed into a hard, irritated line, and the was his long hair fell haphazardly in his face. Your eyes travelled down past his moving mouth, though you couldn’t hear the words falling from those soft lips in your daze.

There was a little blood on his neck, on the thin membrane bouncing over his Adams apple. You licked your lips. There was a bruise forming just under his collarbone, and a circle of red from where someone punched him in the stomach. You could gaze at such a work of art for all eternity and call it heaven. Maybe that angel shot worked after all!

The man outstretched a hand to you. “Come with me, I’ll protect you.”

You found your voice, pushing it past the lump in your throat. “I don’t need protection, especially not from a male model. Are those even real?” Slightly drunk you was notoriously a little handsy, and with abandon you reached out and grasped his firm pectorals, one in each hand. “Oh,” You murmured. “Those are definitely real.”

The din seemed to have died down, but you were unable to move, mortified now with the situation. The man stared back at you in equal surprise.

“Uhh, Sammy?” You both turned to the newcomer—a tall, equally gorgeous man whose arms crossed over his own bare chest, shoulders and knuckles spattered with blood that was clearly not his own as he looked on in smug amusement. “Am I… interrupting?”

You jerked your misbehaving arms to your torso, face burning red. Sammy leaned back and sighed in annoyance. “This was your fault. If you’d just kept your mouth shut, I really didn’t need the chair. We were leaving anyway. But noo, Dean, you just had to square off.”

Dean set his hands on his hips defiantly, nearly giving you a heart attack as more freckle-dusted skin pulled taught over hard muscles, gently loosening around the belly. “Well excuse me bitch for standing up for my baby bro.”

Seriously? The bigger one was the baby brother?

“You owe me a new shirt. And what happened to yours?”

Dean stepped back, appalled at the question. “It’s my favorite Led Zep shirt. Dad bought it for me when I was in my twenties. No way I’m screwing it up in a bar fight!”

Exasperated, Sam tossed his hands in the air and moved to stand, holding out a hand to you once again.

You shrugged it away and stood on your own. “I don’t need help from a couple of male-modeling sons of bitches; I can take care of myself, thanks.”

Dean retrieved his shirt from the beer well. “You heard her, Sammy. She can take care of herself.”

You turned towards Alexcia or whoever when sirens of the coming police armada grew close, ready to bolt but knowing there was no getting away. She was long gone already.

Sam placed a hand on your shoulder and you tensed under the warmth. “Come one, we can get you out of here. Please? To say sorry for ruining your night? And falling on you?”

“Ugh! Fine. What did you have in mind?” You turned, eyes rolling just in time to catch a glimpse of something silver in his hands. “Handcuffs, seriously? Right now isn’t the time to be getting kinky, sir.” In his other hand, an FBI badge rested. “Oh.”

Remarkably quickly, you were cuffed in the back of the Impala and riding away from the chaos of the scene, and even with minimal snickers from the local police in the case of Sam’s half nudity. You knew in that moment, while gazing at the brothers in the front seat, that no matter what the road ahead held, you were glad that these strangers were taking you there. Sam looked back at you and you flashed a toothy grin. Yeah, the night hadn’t ended so badly after all.

Dean rolled his eyes in the rear view. “Can you two wait to continue your weird grabby things until we get to the motel? And get your own damn room.”


End file.
